


An Alliance of the Heart

by xxoldlunchtop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous French, Hurt/Comfort, Post WWI, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxoldlunchtop/pseuds/xxoldlunchtop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Government of the French Republic assures to the Principality of Monaco the defense of its independence and its sovereignty and guarantees the integrity of its territory as if that territory were part of France." After their alliance is reaffirmed in The Treaty of Versailles, Monaco goes to Paris to visit France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Alliance of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> "Human" names are going to be used off and on in this fic. If that isn't your thing, I'm sorry.

It had been many years since Monaco had set foot in Paris; since she had accompanied Prince Carlo III there in the mid 1800s, when he had signed over a large chunk of their country’s territory, in exchange for complete independence.

_If only he could see me now,_ she thought with a sad sigh. She didn’t like the idea of picking favorite monarchs – somehow, it didn’t seem right, since they were all a part of her history – but Carlo would always have a special place in her heart. After all, he had been the one who dreamed up the Monte Carlo Casino, which was quickly becoming the tiny nation’s claim to fame. She still had his personal set of dice, which she always carried on her person. It wasn’t about luck, exactly – only fools believed in luck- more of a way to remember her old friend.

Her old friend that would certainly be disappointed with Monaco’s current situation. The cost of political independence from France had been so high, and the two of them had worked so hard together to make it work. That ended as soon as the Treaty of Versailles was signed, and the responsibility for Monaco’s defense was handed over to her French neighbor.

If she were to be honest with herself, however, the late Prince Carlo’s assumed-disappointment was about the only thing that could make her second guess the decision. Though her country had remained neutral during the conflict, the Great War had been terrifying. The thought of having a larger, more powerful nation look after her people suddenly seemed like a fine idea. Even if that other nation was France.

She hadn’t seen him since the outbreak of the Great War. He had written her multiple times from the trenches, signing each letter, _Grosses bises, Francis._ Monaco replied, of course, though she could never be sure if her letters reached him, and she knew that horrible, gnawing feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away until she saw him in person. Despite all his faults, and despite the fact that Monaco spent a great deal of time complaining about him, she worried about France. When Prince Albert had suggested that she go to stay with him for a while, to help cement their new alliance, she promptly agreed.

Even now, driving through the ancient streets of Paris, she still couldn’t believe that Francis had sent a _car_ for her. For someone who could still remember a time before the steam engine, the contraption seemed like a luxury. This new, modern marvel seemed so out of place in the city as old as Paris.

“We are almost there, _Mademoiselle_ ,” the driver assured her. “Is this your first time in an automobile?”

“Hmm?” she mumbled, snapping out of her trance. “ _Non_ , I’ve driven before. Why do you ask?”

“Forgive me, _Mademoiselle._ ” He looked back at her through the mirror. Monaco didn’t like the way he looked at her, like he knew something about her that she had yet to figure out. It was unnerving. “You seem nervous, that’s all.”

“I’m not nervous,” she lied. She was always nervous.

_“Margo, ma mie, you are always so anxious,”_ _Francis had told her once (and if she remembered correctly, his hand began migrating from her knee to her thigh soon afterwards)._ “ _You will soon have gray hairs if you don’t loosen up…”_

_“I most certainly will not,” she had insisted, struggling to get to the other end of the bench, before it was too late to escape._

The car pulled up to the curb in front of France’s Parisian home; the same home he had lived in for several hundred years now. He had many houses all over his country, of course, but the capital city of Paris was his heart, and therefor his favorite. The building was three stories tall, and sandwiched between two similar houses. Monaco noted that the shutters, the front door, and the fence around the small rose garden had all been replaced since her last visit.

The house’s lone inhabitant, however, hadn’t changed much since he moved in. France sat on the stoop, hunched over with a bored look on his tired face. A floppy black beret covered the top of his head, and his long, silky curls fluttered in the breeze. Monaco watched as he lifted a cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke.

Seeing him again eased the horrible, anxious pain in her stomach. Watching him, sitting on his porch with his cigarette and his overgrown hair, same as always, provided her with the comfort that a thousand letters never could; he was alive, well, and home where he belonged.

“ _Mademoiselle,_ ” the driver said as he opened her door, offering her his hand. Monaco accepted it, slowly maneuvering her way out of the vehicle. Her wide-brimmed hat made the task difficult, but somehow she managed.

“ _Ma chère_ ,” Francis greeted her, by her side as soon as the car door closed behind her. Taking both of her hands, he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, and then the other. Monaco stood on her toes so she could return the gesture, giggling when his stubble brushed across her face.

“You’re as lovely as ever,” he said as he pulled away, winking at her. Monaco couldn’t help but notice the bags under his eyes, and that he seemed a bit thinner than she had remembered.

“ _Merci_ ,” she replied. “You look as though you are doing well, Francis.”

His smile faded a bit, “I am glad to see that you haven’t cut off your beautiful hair, Margo. That seems to be the fashionable thing right now.”

Monaco couldn’t help but notice the way France had brushed off her compliment. Normally, even the slightest hint of praise – especially compliments about his appearance – was enough to inflate his ego, and send him into a ten minute tangent about beauty and the aesthetics of the male figure. A few servings of humble pie would have done him some good, Margo knew, but his abnormal response still worried her.

“I had considered it…” She touched her braid fondly. “But it has taken me so long to grow it out; I couldn’t bring myself to part with it.”

“It suits you,” Francis said. “A classic style; very elegant. Now, if we could just do something about the way you insist on dressing…”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” she jerked her hands free from the Frenchman’s grasp. In accordance with the latest trends, she wore an ankle-length dress that came in slightly under her bust, and flowed loosely around her ankles ( _and thank goodness for that,_ Margo thought. _Those awful hobble-skirts were almost the death of me_ ). A pair of sensible black heels covered her feet, and her black hat was decorated with a large gray bow.

“You wear too much black, _ma belle_ ,” he replied, resting his hand gently on her hip. He rubbed the fabric through his fingers, smirking dangerously. “A beautiful creature like you should wear astonishing colors, or nothing at all.”

“ _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy,” the driver said, averting their attention before Monaco got the chance to come to her senses and swat his hand away. “What shall I do with the lady’s things?”

France looked up, laughing when he noticed not one, not two, but _five_ suitcases piled around the car, along with three hat cases. “Margo, did you pack your entire wardrobe?”

She cleared her throat, “Well, you never specified how long I will be staying with you.”

“ _This_ seems to indicate that you hope to stay with me for some time, _ma petite_.”

Margo sputtered, her face once again growing warm at his implications. Why _had_ she brought so much with her, anyway? While she was packing, it had seemed sensible enough, but now…

“Just bring them upstairs, Bernard,” Francis told his driver. The young man nodded, gathering up as much luggage as he could before he retreated into the house.

He turned his attention back to her, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek gently; a subtle, wordless apology. “You don’t have to make that face. As I have always said, you should never feel unwelcome in my home. You may stay as long as your heart desires.”

 “I don’t want to be a burden-“

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you to stay.”

“ _Merci_ ,” She smiled up at her host. “I must confess, I… I have been quite worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He grabbed onto one of her hands again, shutting down her concerns (and, once again, an opportunity to talk about himself). “Now come inside; we have a lot to talk about, _non_?”

Monaco nodded, and allowed him to lead her into the house. The inside looked completely new; she could still smell the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air, and the wood floors appeared completely refinished. She removed her hat and coat in the foyer, looking around awkwardly for a few moments until she spotted a bronze hat rack in the corner.

“Is there anything else?” the driver asked, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

France shook his head, “You may go.”

“ _Merci,_ ” he nodded politely at both nations before exiting the house.

“Louise!” France called loudly, causing Margo to jump with surprise. A few moments later, a maid emerged from the kitchen. She was a young girl, with thick, curly brown hair and big green eyes. Her uniform was cut low, just above her knees, showing off her body nicely.

_He would make the help wear something like that_ , she thought, fighting off the urge to roll her eyes.

“ _Oui?_ ” she said, her eyes flickering over to Monaco. She smiled immediately. Not just a polite smile; a wide, mischievous grin.

“You may leave, as well,” Francis said. “In fact, take the rest of the week off; your services will not be required. Naturally, I will send your check in the mail, same as always.”

Her smile grew, “Of course, _Monsieur!_ ”

“And send my best wishes to your family, Louise,” he added, holding the door open for her. Margo watched as the young girl slipped into her coat, practically running out the front door. Francis closed it behind her, the loud _bang_ echoed throughout the large empty house.

“Alone at last,” he sighed. “Come with me, _ma chère_ ; I have something that I want to show you.”

Curious, Monaco followed France into the living room. The drapes that covered the windows were all pulled open, but little sunlight found its way inside on such a cloudy day. As she had expected, the living room had been redecorated since her last visit – probably multiple times; France liked to keep up with the latest trends – and now consisted of beautiful cream colored upholstery, dark woods, and purple and gold accents.

She saw what Francis had been referring to before he even pointed to it. A painting of ballerinas, practicing in a studio, hung above the fireplace. The girls in the front wore white tutus, and an elderly man with a walking stick stood in the middle, instructing them.

Margo’s breath caught in her throat, “Degas…”

Francis smirked, “I knew you would appreciate it; that sourpuss England insists I spent too much money on it, but-“

“Arthur does not know what he’s talking about,” Margo cut him off, edging closer to the painting. A dancer herself, she had been a fan of Degas’ works for some time now. “This is gorgeous, Francis…”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, suddenly right next to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but when she looked up, both of his eyes were fixed on the painting. “This piece was particularly difficult to get my hands on, but I wanted to make sure you saw it; he is your favorite, _non?_ ”

Margo nodded, “How is he? Degas, I mean.”

France’s smile faded, “He’s… passed away, I’m afraid. Just a few years ago.”

“Oh no…” she clasped her hand over her heart. She had never even met the man, but after admiring his paintings for so long, she was sad to hear of his death. And now, she could never express her admiration to him personally.

“As I understand it, he had been homeless for quite some time before his passing,” Francis continued. “He was a strange character; kept mostly to himself, never married, chased off most of his friends. His life was all about his work, you know the type. But a painting cannot keep a man warm at night…”

Monaco cleared her throat, “No, I suppose not.”

She was only a little surprised when France pulled her into his arms, but she still gasped when she suddenly found herself being held tightly against his chest. She frowned, ready to blurt out a protest, but… something wasn’t right. This embrace wasn’t perverse at all. One arm rested on her waist, and his other hand held the back of her head gently. She felt his cheek resting on top of her head, and in the intense quiet of the almost empty house, she swore she heard him sob quietly. Only once, but she was certain that was what she heard.

“Francis…?” she whispered, suddenly afraid of speaking too loudly. Even that one small word seemed to fill the room completely.

“Just for a minute.” She felt him move, his face now buried in her hair. He inhaled deeply. “Please…”

“A-alright…” she agreed, hesitating for a moment before wrapping her arms around his middle. As soon as she did so, Francis tightened his hold, and she heard him sob again; louder this time. As much as Margo’s heart ached to hear of the passing of a favorite artist, this felt a million times worse. She was more worried about France than ever before, and that horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach was beginning to return.


End file.
